The Dark One: Dark Knight (94 page)

     She began to shake. She had played right
into Guy's hands...again.

     “My dear God,” she whispered, sinking
against the wall. “What is it that I have done?”

     De Tormo frowned. “What? I do not
understand.”

     She let out a loud gasp, her hands to her
head. “I have been so foolish, Father. I have ruined everything.”

     De Tormo stood up. “My God, Remington, I
hope this means you are finally coming to your senses.”

     She looked at him, her hand over her mouth
with the horror of what had happened. “How could I….oh, Father, I shouldn't
have said what I did. I have always regretted it, but I did not want to admit
it. I should have trusted him!”

     De Tormo sighed heavily, saying a silent
prayer of thanks. “If you two aren't the most stubborn people I have ever had
the misfortune to come across.”

     “Oh, God, he hates me,” Remington moaned.
“He would have come himself if he did not.”

     “He tried sending you missives, but you did
not respond,” de Tormo told her. “You sent them back unopened. He even sent
Wellesbourne because he thought mayhap your anger would not be so great on a
middleman, but you sent Wellesbourne away, too. I tell you, Remington, he's
simply not the same man since you left.”

     She stared at him, her face glazed with
misery and hope. “Where is he, Father?”

     De Tormo blinked. “Warminster. Gaston is
now the Duke of Warminster.”

     “
What?
” she burst.

     “He's abandon Mt. Holyoak, because it
reminded him of you,” the priest said quietly. “He refuses to return to
Clearwell at all. Henry pushed the dukedom down his throat, thinking it would
ease the pain of his loss of you, and Gaston had no choice but to accept.”

     “He's a duke?” she repeated in disbelief.

     “A powerful one.”

     She shook her head slowly. “No one deserves
it more than he for everything he has been through in his life. Do you know
where my sisters and son are?”

     “Nicolas married Skye. I performed the
ceremony, in fact. As I also performed the mass for Antonius and Jasmine,” de
Tormo said. “They are all in Warminster, with the exception of Patrick. He's
turned Clearwell into a larger training ground than even Mt. Holyoak and
resides there. Gaston divides his time between Clearwell, London, and Deverill
Castle.”

     “Deverill Castle?”

     “His fortress in Warminster,” the priest
said.

     “What about Mt. Holyoak? Is it vacant?” she
asked, feeling greatly fatigued all of a sudden.

     “For the most part,” de Tormo replied. “It
is still Gaston's and he keeps about one hundred and fifty men there, a
skeleton guard for the region.”

     “What of Lord Botmore? Is he still raiding
the area?”

     “With Gaston gone, there is no need to,”
the priest answered. “Besides, Lord Brimley seems to be acting as Henry's
liaison in the region. Henry himself traveled to Yorkshire to meet with the
baron, knowing how Gaston felt about returning to Mt. Holyoak.”

     She was silent, feeling the babe kicking
and rubbing at her belly. De Tormo watched her, thinking she looked ravishing
pregnant. He’d never truly seen a beautiful pregnant woman up until now. He
knew Gaston's stubborn, bitter heart would melt if he could only see her.

     “Gaston's child is large,” he commented.
“You still have some time to go yet, do you not?”

     “Six or seven weeks,” she answered
absently, turning her gaze to de Tormo. “I cannot travel, father.”

     “I know,” he said softly. She would go to
him if she could.

     “Shall... shall I take a message to
Gaston?”

     She lowered her head again, folding her
hands over her belly. “Tell him... tell him if he sends a missive, I will not
return it unopened.”

***

     Wells was not far from Warminster. In fact,
the distance could be traveled in a little over half a day. There were
thousands of times when Gaston wanted to jump on a horse and ride hard to the
abbey, break the doors down and shake some sense into Remington. There was not
a minute that passed that he was not thinking of her, wondering how she was
faring, wondering if she had stopped hating him.

     She was the reason he had accepted
Warminster. He could be close to her in Warminster, much closer than Clearwell
or Mt. Holyoak. Even if she did not want to see him, he could still be close to
her. But having missive after missive returned unopened nearly killed him. Not
a drinking man, he had drunk himself into a stupor every time a missive had
returned untouched.

     He relived their last conversation nightly.
She did not trust him anymore. She did not want to see him anymore. His stomach
hurt so terribly that he had taken to drinking cow's milk in the morning to
sooth it.

     With Henry's new recruits divided between
Clearwell and Deverill Castle, he was amply occupied with his duties. In a
desperate attempt to divert his attention from his agony, he had taken to
training the men personally. Having amassed at least fifteen more pounds on his
already massive frame, he was more muscular and tighter than ever before and
looked forward to the grueling regime he had set forth for the men. It helped
him to forget, even if his men thought they were training under the devil
himself.

     When de Tormo had arrived from Wells late
one night with news of Remington, Gaston had turned into an emotional bundle
and downed two big bottles of wine as the priest told him of Remington, of
their conversation. Nicolas and Antonius had sat in on the first few minutes of
the meeting for emotional support, but left at the priest's insistence. Without
Arik's wisdom, Gaston often felt a bit lost when he was feeling particularly
emotional. Arik always managed to calm him down somehow.  Matthew was the head
of reason, too, but he had a new family and his focus needed to be with them
even though he had spent an inordinate amount of time with Gaston lately.  At
this moment, however, Gaston was without him and quickly growing unsteady.

     He had stopped drinking when de Tormo told
him that Remington promised to read any missive he should decide to send. It
had been enough for him to toss the bottles in the hearth and draw forth
vellum. But he had been too drunk to write, and de Tormo took over the duties.
They had wasted an entire piece of valuable vellum because Gaston couldn't
decide what exactly he wished to say. Everything sounded too emotional, or too
detached, or just plain silly.

     He just couldn't seem to tell her what he
was feeling on a piece of parchment. He had to go and see her, beg her
forgiveness, to see her once more. All of his pride and bitterness was
forgotten, replaced by a soaring hope.

     De Tormo couldn't have been more pleased.
He was glad he had taken the chance to go and see Remington, pleased that
Gaston was surmounting his considerable pride in the matter. He only hoped the
brandy would not make him forget everything he had vowed come morning.

     He never got the chance to make good on his
vows the next day. Henry had trouble in southern Yorkshire at a major
stronghold known as Spofforth.  Gaston mobilized eight hundred men and set a
missive to Clearwell for four hundred more. Even as both armies moved
northward, his mind was with Remington, aching with every fiber in his body to
see her. He wondered if she would take the delayed response as a negative
reaction. Dear God, he hoped not.

     He did so want to see her himself,
personally. Since it was an impossibility, he sent de Tormo back to Wells Abbey
to tell Remington that he would come when time allowed to see her himself. The
priest was only too happy to comply.

     As Gaston and his mighty army went
northward to Spofforth, de Tormo mounted his small mare and took six soldiers
with him for his mission of peace back to the abbey.

***

     Gaston returned to Deverill Castle almost
three weeks later. His new keep outside of Warminster welcomed him with open
gates and an honor guard, as befitting the duke. The small skirmish had been
overwhelmingly successful in Henry's favor, an insignificant battle with two
minor barons. Spofforth had held magnificently, and to Gaston went the victory.

     As his army entered the huge bailey in the
dark of night, Gaston’s thoughts were already on Remington. A thousand torches
lit the night sky as he dismounted Taran, leaving Antonius and Nicolas in
charge of dismantling the army. He knew de Tormo was inside, waiting for him
with Remington’s reaction, and he had to speak with him. Were the reaction
favorable, he would leave for Wells Abbey this night.

     The great double doors to the castle were
open and the first sight to greet him was Jasmine and Skye, wrapped against the
chill of the castle. Their pretty faces were pale and drawn.

     “Where is de Tormo?” he demanded, foregoing
any greeting.

     “Not here,” Jasmine said, extending her
hand. There was a rolled, sealed piece of vellum. “This came this morning,
Gaston.”

     Gaston stared at it a moment before
snatching it away, breaking the seal. There were only three words:

Come immediately. De
Tormo

     Gaston couldn't help it; his stomach
lurched and he crushed the parchment in his fist.

     “What is it?” Jasmine demanded. “One of the
priest's men brought it. What does it say?”

     He was shaking; sweat was beading on his
upper lip. “I have to go.”

     Skye was starting to cry and Jasmine dashed
forward, grasping Gaston's arm. “For God's sake, Gaston, what is it? Has
something happened to Remington?”

     His voice was quivering when he spoke. “I
do not know. I have to go.”

     Taran has already been taken away when he
reached the bailey. Panic ruled his brain; he took the nearest mount and set
out for Wells Abbey. Nicolas and Antonius saw him ride off, too far away to yell
to him. Puzzlement was rampant, but they stuck to their orders and continued to
dismantle the troops. Wherever he was going, he did not need them, else he
would have summoned their assistance.

     Gaston rode like the devil. His mount was a
warmblood, not too winded, and took his commands easily. Armor and all, he
weighed over four hundred pounds, but the horse handled him well.

     The moon above was full and bright, like a
great silver plate in the sky. The landscape around him, softly rolling hills
that would be green and fragrant in another month or so, passed by him an eerie
gray color. It served to fit his mood, mindless and bleak. Looking at the
countryside, his terror suddenly took on a shape.

     He was afraid to anticipate the reason for
de Tormo's urgent missive. Were he to imagine the possibilities, he would
transform into a quivering lump of flesh, unable to function. He had to retain
his sanity just long enough to discover the reason for the missive. Only
afterward would he determine his reaction.

     When he reached Wells Abbey an hour before
dawn, his horse collapsed underneath him and died.

***

     Loaded with armor and weapons, the war
machine known as the Duke of Warminster marched into Wells Abbey. He paused in
the dimly lit foyer, raising his faceplate as a gaggle of nuns hovered nearby.

     “Where is de Tormo?” he demanded. “Better
yet, were is Lady Remington?”

     One nun, and older lady with a creased
face, approached him and bowed respectfully. “I am Sister Josepha. Who are thou
that wouldst invade our sanctuary?”

     Above his anxiety, he realized he must look
like the devil himself to these women. He tried to calm his brusque manner.

     “I am the Duke of Warminster, Gaston de
Russe,” he said calmly. “Would you please tell Father de Tormo that I am here? He
sent me a missive to come right away.”

     The nuns in the corner began to whisper to
each other urgently, two of them rushing off in a flurry. Gaston heard two
words,
Dark One.

     Sister Josepha maintained her calm
demeanor. “He is expecting thou. I shall send someone to fetch him.”

     She called to a young girl hovering nearby
to fetch the father and beckoned Gaston to the visitor's solar. Being so close
to Remington, Gaston's skin was prickling even as the old nun poured him a
drink into a crude wooden cup. He had not been this close to her in months, and
his excitement made his skin hurt. He did not want the offered beverage, but
took it anyway.

     “Where is Lady Remington?” he asked again.
“I would see her as well.”

     The old woman cast an appraising eye at him.
“Thou art the husband?”

     He blinked and shook his head. “Nay.”

     She nodded. “Ah. The lover. The Dark
Knight.''